


to die upon a kiss

by Anonymous



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Supernatural Elements, Underage Drinking, Wishes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-08-28 22:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When Jaemin first plants the idea of ‘forever’ in Jisung’s mind it seems almost impossible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [2030](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460567) by [wtfwonu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfwonu/pseuds/wtfwonu). 



> chapter song: smother by daughter

 

They’re in the treehouse when Jaemin first plants the idea of forever in Jisung’s mind.

  
  
The treehouse has always been a constant in their friendship. It was in this treehouse that their friendship first blossomed: five year old Jisung had peered up from his back garden to see seven year old Jaemin up in the trees, waving through the window in the treehouse. It was in this treehouse that an unbreakable bond first formed between them, something like blood brothers but without the blood because seven year old Jisung was too afraid of blades and sixteen year old Jisung isn’t much better. It was this treehouse that they ran away to when their parents yelled a little too much. It was in this treehouse that they cried into each other’s arms, that they laughed until they couldn’t breathe.

  
  
It was in this treehouse that Jisung first fell in love with Jaemin. It happened slowly, like the turning of leaves from a bright summer green to a mellow autumn gold, but when it hit Jisung, it hit hard. It knocked the wind out of him. Suddenly, every time he saw Jaemin he would find himself breathless. His heart would skip beats, his palms would grow sweaty, his mind would melt like ice and an unusual tingly feeling would flood through him.  

  
  
And it was in the treehouse late one night that it dawns upon him. That Jisung truly falls in love, because all of a sudden, he understands. He understands what his heart and his mind has been trying to tell him, and he wonders how he could have ever been so blind because Jaemin’s right in front of him, and he’s so beautiful. The fairy lights look like stars in his eyes and in the cool night air, his cheeks blush rose. His eyes flutter shut and a warm smile blooms on his face. Jisung suddenly feels like crying; Jaemin is so close, barely an arm’s length away, and yet he’s unreachable. He’s everything Jisung wishes for, but can never have.

  
  
But Jisung would never wish for Jaemin, because Jaemin deserves to choose for himself. Jaemin deserves to experience love as it is, with all its peaks and troughs, highs and lows, mountains and marshland. Jisung could never steal Jaemin; he can only hope that their fates are so finely intertwined that their hearts will end up as one, too.

  
  
But when Jaemin first plants the idea of forever in Jisung’s mind, it seems almost impossible. 

  
  
“Do you think that we’ll use this treehouse forever?” Jaemin asks. They’re curled up on the beanbag pressed against the furthest wall, away from the creeping breeze and the gaze of the window.

  
  
Jisung snorts. “Of course not. One day we’ll get too big to fit through the door.”

  
  
“Then,” Jaemin says, “I’ll just cut it bigger.”

  
  
“One day we’ll be too heavy.”

  
  
Jaemin shrugs. “We can always lose some weight.”

  
  
“One day-“

  
  
Jaemin turns in the beanbag which rattles with his movement. Jisung falls silent and when he looks to his side, Jaemin’s got his gaze tilted up at Jisung, his eyes searching. Jisung swallows.

  
  
“Even when we’re adults, we’ll still visit the treehouse. Even when we’re too big for the door and too heavy for the branches, we’ll visit. Together. Forever.” Jaemin reaches over and clasps one of Jisung’s hands between his own. His touch is warm and Jisung feels himself heat up. “Do you promise me?”

  
  
“Forever is impossible,” Jisung says.

  
  
Jaemin ignores him. “Promise?”

  
  
Jisung purses his lips. Forever is a long time, but if it’s forever with Jaemin, then he thinks he could do it.

  
  
“Okay,” Jisung breathes out, and it’s more of a whisper. Jaemin lets go of Jisung’s hand to curl their pinkies together. Jisung wonders if the threads of their fate are being woven together, if the picture of their future is being drawn as they speak. He clasps a little tighter to Jaemin’s pinky as if it will speed up the process. When they let go, he feels something give way. His mind feels lighter and his heart, heavier, but not with sadness; his heart weighs down with an emotion that can’t be described with words. It’s a promise. A bond that cannot be explained but felt, something unspoken between him and Jaemin.

  
  
And it’s this promise that leads to the next chapter of their lives full of more ‘firsts’ in the treehouse. It’s this promise that leads Jisung to wonder if asking Jaemin out is not all that impossible, because if forever is not impossible, then anything can happen. Each time Jisung thinks back to the promise and the way that they had linked pinkies, he thinks that even if Jaemin says no, this won’t affect them. They’ll still sit up in the treehouse when life gets too hard. They’ll still call for each other in the dead of night because they know they’ll always be there for each other. They’ll still love each other, even if it’s not the love Jisung hopes for.

  
  
But Jisung will still hope. He will still try. So, he does.

  
  
It’s a week before Christmas and it’s all that Jaemin’s talking about.

  
  
“It’s all I’m looking forward to,” Jaemin tells him one night over the phone, and while Jisung says ‘me too’, it’s a lie. Jisung doesn’t lie much, especially not to Jaemin of all people, but loving Jaemin turns Jisung upside down and inside out and reimagines everything he thought he once was.

  
  
Jisung isn’t looking forward to Christmas, because all that’s on his mind is kissing Jaemin. All that’s on his mind is being able to love Jaemin freely and openly. With each passing second and with each beat of his heart, Jisung yearns more and more. He aches for Jaemin, so much so that sometimes he feels that he might die. He aches for Jaemin so, that his passion could set fire to the rain as it falls.

  
  
He pines and aches so much that sometimes looking at Jaemin hurts. He has to turn away and calm his breathing and tell his heart to slow down because otherwise it will burst through his chest.

  
  
Jisung thinks that Jaemin doesn’t notice, because why would he? Why would Jaemin look for Jisung the way Jisung looks for Jaemin?

 

Jisung thinks that Jaemin doesn’t notice, but he does, and one day while they’re walking home together on a midwinter’s afternoon, Jaemin stops in the middle of the path and takes Jisung’s hand between his own. It’s a gesture that Jisung should be comfortable with; Jaemin always does it when he has something important to say, or when he’s comforting Jisung (which happens a lot more than Jisung would care to admit).

  
  
But his heart whines in his chest and his palms grow sweaty and everything hurts. Jisung snatches his hand from Jaemin’s grasp and tucks it into his pocket. Though Jisung looks away, he’s not quick enough because he doesn’t miss the way Jaemin’s face falls and his soft features are marred with a pained frown. Jisung hurt Jaemin. The thought has Jisung’s heart hurting just that little bit more and he forces his gaze to the ground so as not to look in Jaemin’s eyes. Jisung doesn’t think he could bear anymore of Jaemin’s pain.

  
  
Neither of them move. Jisung can see Jaemin’s breath like mist or dragon smoke in the cool afternoon air. They don’t move so it shrouds them, blocking them from the outside world. It’s so cold and so misty that it feels as though time freezes, too. A snapshot of forever. But Jisung doesn’t want a forever where he’s hurt Jaemin. He doesn’t want a forever where he loves Jaemin so much that he’s afraid his heart will give way. So he looks up and he meets Jaemin’s eyes and his heart drops in his chest.

  
  
Jaemin’s looking at him with teary eyes and where his lips are normally smiling, they’re now turned down at the corners. He looks at Jisung as though he holds a gun to his head. He looks at Jisung as though Jisung’s his end. Jisung can’t bear it.

  
  
“What is it?” Jisung asks once the silence grows too heavy to bear and the mist so thick that he feels as though he can’t breathe.

  
  
Jaemin lets out a shuddery breath. “I want you to be honest with me, Sungie,” Jaemin says and Jisung immediately has a lie on the tip of his tongue. “Why are you pulling away from me?” His words are delicate, spoken as though they could shatter the mist around them. “Why don’t you look at me anymore? Why don’t you curl into my side like you used to?”

 

Jisung’s bottom lip wobbles so he pulls it into his mouth. He steels himself for what’s coming next by shutting his eyes; he can’t bear to see the look on Jaemin’s face when he realises that Jisung loves him. He can’t bear to see the disgust, the anger, the confusion. He trusts Jaemin not to leave him over this, but he doesn’t trust him not to hurt him. Because loving Jaemin hurts Jisung already and he’s sure that once he takes this leap, he’ll fall, not fly.

  
  
Jisung can’t do this. Not here, not now; he needs time to think, even if it’s for a moment. He forces himself to move. He brushes past Jaemin and continues down the path towards their houses. A minute passes and he doesn’t hear Jaemin’s footsteps behind him, and just as he’s about to turn around, he feels Jaemin come up to his side, appearing like a ghost. Like mist.

  
  
They don’t speak as they walk home. Jisung passes his house and follows Jaemin next door, into his own home. Something in the back of his mind hopes that Jaemin will slam the door in Jisung’s face and not let him in, but when Jaemin walks inside and leaves the door open, Jisung follows. Jisung follows Jaemin up the stairs, too, and into Jaemin’s room. Jisung’s been there many times before; he’s spent his childhood here and little bits of Jisung are pasted all over the room. There are pictures on the windowsill and the shelves in replacement of flower pots. Jisung’s hoodies hang like vines from the end of Jaemin’s bed.

  
  
Jaemin sits on his bed, his hands tucked under his legs. When Jisung sits besides him, he half wishes that Jaemin would reach over and clasp his hand again, but Jaemin doesn’t. He sits on his hands as though he’s holding himself back and that familiar burn of hurt comes back, blazing through him like wildfire. He curses himself. How could he have pulled away from Jaemin like that before? Jisung would forfeit forever if it meant he could turn back time.

   
  
Jisung breaks the silence first. He can’t bear Jaemin’s dejected face any longer.

  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For pulling away from you. For distancing myself.”

  
  
Jaemin sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, as if tired. “You don’t have to apologise. I’m not upset with you.”

  
  
Jisung doesn’t believe him. “You seem upset.”

  
  
“I am,” Jaemin says. “But not with you. With myself.”

  
  
Jisung blinks. What? Why would Jaemin be upset with himself? He’s done nothing. Loving Jaemin is not Jaemin’s fault; that’s all on Jisung.

  
  
“Why?” Jisung asks. 

  
  
“Because... I’m a bad friend,” Jaemin says and Jisung feels something inside of him break. “You don’t have to tell me if something’s going on, but I’m a bad friend for not noticing it sooner. For pushing you when you what you need isn’t to be pushed, but something else I’m not allowed to give you.” Jisung opens his mouth to ask what Jaemin means when Jaemin continues. “And if it’s not that, then it must be my fault. What else would it be? I know I’m overly affectionate, and I know that you don’t like affection as much as I do. I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, and I’m even more sorry for making you feel as though you have to reciprocate. You could have told me, Sungie. I wouldn’t have been mad. I could never be mad at you.”

  
  
Jisung stares at Jaemin, open mouthed. Is this what Jaemin’s been feeling? That it’s all his fault? That Jisung doesn’t want his affection? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. In a moment of reckless bravery, Jisung reaches over and plucks Jaemin’s hand from under his leg. He holds it between his own, brushing his thumb over the ridges of Jaemin’s knuckles, dipping between their valleys. He traces the blue river veins that wind and meander under his skin. He feels the butterfly thrum of his pulse on his wrist.

  
  
Jaemin watches as Jisung feels every inch of his hand as if committing it to memory. As if he hasn’t held his hand a thousand times before. As if he’ll never hold his hand again.

  
  
“You’re so stupid,” Jisung says. “But I understand. You’ve always been stupid.”

  
  
Jaemin’s jaw drops. “Hey, I’m your hyung-!”

  
  
“I love you.” Jaemin’s jaw snaps shut. Warmth flowers from Jisung’s chest, unfurling through his body like petals. Jaemin’s hand grows stiff in his grasp. “I thought it was obvious. I love you. I’m _in_ love with you. When you would touch me and hold me and look at me as if you loved me it hurt so bad because you‘re not mine and I’m not yours but you would love me like we were.”

  
  
Jaemin withdraws his hand and Jisung thinks that this is it. He braces himself for the worst, shuts his eyes against anything Jaemin will throw at him. He doesn’t expect a soft hand cupping his cheek. He doesn’t expect a soothing hand on his thigh. He doesn’t expect to open his eyes and see Jaemin grinning, his smile brighter than the first light at dawn. Jaemin giggles and the weight in Jisung’s chest lightens.

  
  
“I guess we’re both stupid, huh?” Jaemin says.

  
  
“What do you mean?”

  
  
“I love you,” Jaemin says. Jisung feels himself sway. What did Jaemin just say? “I’ve loved you for longer than I have memories.”

  
  
“Oh,” Jisung says. His eyes prickle with tears and the air in his lungs feels far too heavy. “Oh.”

  
  
“Yeah. We love each other, huh. How embarrassing.”

  
  
Jisung huffs out a laugh and leans into Jaemin’s touch. His eyes flutter shut and he focuses on the feeling of Jaemin holding him. He focuses on the warmth that radiates from him like rays of sunlight. He focuses on the feeling of flying.

  
  
Jaemin shuffles closer and suddenly it’s too warm. Jisung feels like he could explode. This is too much; he’s wanted this for so long, he’s thought of this so much that it feels like a dream. How can this be real? There’s no way. But then Jaemin leans in and Jisung’s heart jumps in his chest and he realises that, yeah, this is real. He loves Jaemin, and Jaemin loves him.

 

 _Jaemin loves him_. Even thinking it has Jisung giggling.

  
  
“I love you,” Jisung breathes out against Jaemin’s lips. They’re not kissing. Not yet. But Jaemin’s so close that if Jisung leaned in even a fraction of an inch, their lips would touch.

  
  
Jaemin sucks in a lungful of air as if shocked. As if Jisung hadn’t already confessed.

  
  
“I love you,” Jaemin parrots.

  
  
“I love you,” Jisung says again, and they pass the words between them. Not like a present, because presents aren’t eternal. They’re given and opened and that’s it. The words pass between them like the sun and moon pass each other in the sky in an endless push and pull. Like the tides ebb and flow.

 

 

 

 

From thereon out, Jaemin and Jisung become one. They’re almost inseparable. Nights are spent in either Jaemin or Jisung’s rooms, curled up against each other for warmth. They take time away from each other too, because loving Jaemin sucks all of the energy from Jisung. He loves Jaemin so much that he finds himself spent.

  
  
Their first date is nothing like the movies. It happens about a week before christmas when the town is lit up with fairy lights and a light dusting of snow covers the trees and rooftops. It’s too cold for a picnic, and the cinema is too far away, so they resolve to stay at home. Jaemin insists that he cooks, and Jisung isn’t one to deny him.

  
  
“At least let me help,” Jisung whines as he watches Jaemin bustle about, carrying armfuls of sauces and packets of spice.

  
  
“No, it’s my treat! Relax! Put your feet up for once.”

  
  
“Putting my feet up is all I do. Let my treat be helping you.” Jaemin pouts but lets Jisung help anyway; Jaemin’s always been too weak to deny him.

 

Jaemin passes him vegetables and Jisung tries his best to cut them up. They’re uneven and ragged and Jisung apologises so much that he starts to wish he’d just taken a back seat and watched, but Jaemin only laughs.

  
  
“It’s alright. They’re still edible.” Jaemin pours the chopped up veggies into the boiling pot. Once he’s washed his hands, he reaches over and pinches Jisung’s cheeks. “Next time, let me do it.”

  
  
Jisung scrunches up his face and leans away from Jaemin’s grasp. “Yes, hyung.”

  
  
Jaemin hums and pulls back with a contented smile. “You can help with the washing up, though!”

  
  
Jisung groans but slides out of his seat to help, anyway, because time spent with Jaemin washing up is still time spent with Jaemin, and if Jisung can’t have forever then he’ll take what he can.

  
  
Their second date is at a drive-in movie theatre. When Jaemin suggests it Jisung initially refuses because it’s far too cold, and why can’t they just sit at home? But Jaemin throws knitted hats and scarves and woollen blankets at them, so Jisung relents.

  
  
Jaemin’s car is run-down and rusty but Jisung loves it anyway. There’s a polaroid of them together, grinning in the treehouse about a week after Jisung first confessed tacked onto the dashboard. Jaemin keeps a small succulent in a pot in his cup holder and when Jisung chastises him and tells him that it’s a projectile, Jaemin simply laughs and names it ‘Sungie’. After that, Jisung can’t protest.

  
  
The drive-in is far too cold and Jisung pays more attention to the reflection of the movie in Jaemin’s eyes than the movie itself. Jaemin sits in the driver’s seat, and Jisung in the passenger’s seat and though there’s only a gearstick between them, it feels like a mountain. When Jisung reaches over to peck Jaemin’s cheek his neck strains and he thinks he may pull a muscle but in the end, it’s worth it because Jaemin flushes, cheeks burning like a summer sunset.

  
  
And just as Jisung pulls back to settle in his seat, Jaemin reaches out and grasps the collar of Jisung’s jumper, tugging him back over the mountain between them. Jisung’s breath catches in his throat — he thinks that this is it. That Jaemin’s going to kiss him. On the lips. For real.

  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut and waits. Jaemin’s breath ghosts over his lips and it makes goosebumps break out over his arms. He shivers and leans into the touch but it never comes. Instead, Jaemin kisses his nose, and then his cheekbone, and then the crook of his jaw, and then his forehead. Each kiss is precious and a year ago, Jisung would have never imagined he’d get this far, yet now, a wave of disappointment washes over him.

  
  
“What is it?” Jaemin asks when Jisung doesn’t kiss back. The movie has long since ended, the credits rolling on the screen. The words reflect on Jaemin’s cheek, rolling over his skin like rain. “Was it too much?” Jaemin’s always been too perceptive for his own good, and yet somehow, he’s as dense as ever.

  
  
“Of course not,” Jisung says. Jaemin‘s eyes flutter down to Jisung’s lips and Jisung sucks in a breath. Maybe now? But then Jaemin breaks away his gaze and looks into Jisung’s eyes instead.

  
  
“You’ve never been a good liar,” Jaemin says. “Tell me.”

  
  
“No.”

  
  
“Tell me,” Jaemin whines.

  
  
“Jaem, no.”

  
  
“Jisungie,” Jaemin calls out in sing-song. “I don’t want to make you sad.”

  
  
“You could never make me sad,” Jisung says and Jaemin frowns.

  
  
“I can’t tell if that’s a lie or not.” Jisung shrugs and Jaemin huffs, leaning back into the seat. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  
  
Jaemin’s eyes are pleading and his face, worried. If he keeps frowning like that he’ll etch wrinkles into his forehead. Jisung smooths out the frown with his thumb and Jaemin relaxes at his touch. And then Jisung cups Jaemin’s jaw, like Jaemin had done to him back when Jisung had first confessed, and Jisung leans in. Jaemin’s eyes grow wide as he watches Jisung grow close and as Jisung’s breath fans over his lips, Jaemin’s eyes shut. Waiting. Anticipating. But the kiss never comes because while Jisung stares and wants and aches, he can’t do it. Not here in the cold in an empty parking lot. Not here, in Jaemin’s rusty car, where Jisung’s neck strains as he leans in.

  
  
He presses his lips to Jaemin’s forehead and he’s not sure if it’s shame or embarrassment or love that sears his heart, but it’s warm and overwhelming. Loving Jaemin is overwhelming. Jisung wonders if he will die loving him.

  
  
“Oh,” Jaemin says when Jisung pulls back. “I see.”

  
  
“See what?”

  
  
“No, I- I thought you were going to…” Jaemin trails off. He turns back to face Jisung and when he sees the smirk on Jisung’s face, he scowls. “You did that on purpose.”

  
  
“Did what, hyung?” Jisung asks, ever innocent. Jaemin’s face contorts even more before it melts into something fond, something radiant.

  
  
“Nothing. Better drop you home before your parents kill me for stealing you,” Jaemin says and Jisung only laughs.

  
  
“Hyung, we live next door to each other.”

  
  
Jaemin pokes his tongue out at Jisung as he pulls out of the parking lot. The car rattles and jumps over the uneven ground and Jisung has to steel himself against the door for fear that he’ll fly through the windshield. But then they get onto the highway and Jisung relaxes because he knows Jaemin will get him home in one piece. His parents will kill him if he doesn’t.

 

 

 

  
  
Their first true kiss comes on New Year’s Eve. It’s utterly cliche, but then again, everything about them is cliche.

  
  
It was Jisung’s turn to host the party, so everyone in their little friendship group is huddled in their living room come the last day of December. There’s Jeno and his dad, who had brought over crates of snacks to share around; Donghyuck and his five siblings claim an entire corner for themselves, too busy bickering and snacking to pay any attention; Renjun and Chenle are curled on the couch under a blanket, clinging to each other because they’re as close to home as either of them are going to get. Jaemin’s family are in the kitchen, pottering about and making sure that all the food is ready for after the fireworks because God knows they’ll all be hungry.

  
  
Five minutes to midnight, they’re in the garden, huddled in blankets and their thickest coats while the parents set up the fireworks. Jisung’s got a mug of hot chocolate (which is now not even all that hot) which he sips at in wait for the fireworks.

  
  
“Excited?” Jaemin asks as he comes up besides Jisung. “I can’t believe this, we’re going to be so old!”

  
  
“You’re already old,” Jisung says and dips down to drink some hot chocolate. It swirls in his tummy, warm and comforting.

  
  
“Hey, I’m not old. Not yet! You’ll still be with me when we’re old, right? When we can no longer walk around? Silly question. If you can’t walk, you’ll be stuck with me.”

  
  
Jisung had thought that he knew everything there was to know about Jaemin. After all, they’ve grown up together and spent the better part of their lives together. Jisung thought he knew it all. But dating Jaemin changes this. Dating Jaemin means that Jisung is now able to read between the lines. Dating Jaemin means that the Jaemin that once presented himself as invincible, now lets down his guard.

  
  
If there’s anything Jisung has learnt about Jaemin, it’s that he’s vulnerable. He thrives off affection, off validation, and seeks it out like a bee to honey. Jisung could never feel unloved in this relationship, could never question what they are, because Jaemin makes such a case of showing it. Jisung, on the other hand, not so much. Affection isn’t something that comes easily to him: he shrivels up at the thought of it and withers inside when he gives some. But for Jaemin, Jisung tries his best, because he knows that it’s what Jaemin wants. And Jisung wants it too, but being affectionate is not something he’s used to. This is new territory, and though Jisung’s tread is light and careful, he still ends up stumbling.

  
  
Like now. Like when Jaemin questions their ‘forever’. Jisung tries to think back to the last time they ‘kissed’ - in the front of Jaemin’s car at the drive-in cinema, and his heart drops in his chest. It feels like months ago.

  
  
“Of course we’ll be together when we’re older,” Jisung says. “We promised each other forever, didn’t we?”

  
  
Jaemin’s face melts into a smile, and Jisung’s heart melts along with it.

  
  
“Yeah,” Jaemin breathes out, so soft and delicate that it almost gets lost amongst the sea of chatter.

  
  
Jisung untucks an arm from under his blanket and fiddles in the dark to find Jaemin’s hand. It takes a long, embarrassing moment, but eventually he finds it and links their pinkies together. He squeezes; a reminder of forever.

  
  
Jaemin looks at the place where their pinkies touch as if he can’t believe it. He stares and stares and Jisung begins to worry, but then he tears his gaze away and focuses on Jisung. His eyes are wide in the dark, looking almost like black holes, and Jisung’s sucked in. He doesn’t question anything as Jaemin leans in and gets even closer and he’s so close that Jaemin’s fringe tickles his forehead and what is he doing-

  
  
Jaemin pulls Jisung into a crushing hug and the hot chocolate Jisung was holding spills between them. Jisung jumps back: it’s not hot, but the feeling is so unusual that he can’t help the twinge of disgust and annoyance that pierces him.

  
  
“Sorry!” Jaemin gasps and takes a step back. “I just really wanted to hug you.”

  
  
“It’s fine,” Jisung says, because it really is. A little hot chocolate on his shirt is no big deal, but Jaemin makes it one.

  
  
“But what if you get cold because of me? It can’t feel nice. Oh, Jisungie.” Jaemin frets about Jisung, eyes darting from the wet patch to Jisung’s downturned lips. “Come on, we have a minute or so before midnight. Get changed.”

  
  
“We’ll miss the fireworks,” Jisung says as Jaemin tugs him by the wrist back into the house.

  
  
Jaemin rolls his eyes. “We won’t miss the fireworks.”

  
  
Jisung makes Jaemin wait in the kitchen while he changes shirts, and by the time he comes out, the countdown has started.

  
  
“Ten!” they shout from the garden, their voices muffled behind the thick walls.

  
  
The kitchen is dark and the hazy light from everyone holding sparklers outside breaks through the window in shards. It only illuminates half of Jaemin’s face, and yet he’s still beautiful. Jisung yearns to rush forward and press their lips together but he holds himself back. He has nine more seconds to decide if he wants it to be here. If he wants it to be now.

  
  
“Nine!”

  
  
“The fireworks-“ Jisung starts but the chant of ‘eight!’ has him falling silent again. Jaemin giggles.

  
  
“Seven!”

  
  
Jaemin takes a step closer and Jisung wonders what would happen if he were to take a step forward, too. If their chests would touch and Jisung’s hair would tickle Jaemin’s face and their lips would maybe-

  
  
“Six!”

  
  
Jaemin tugs at the blanket around Jisung’s shoulders. Jisung feels it fall to the floor but he doesn’t bend down to pick it up. He can’t take his eyes off Jaemin.

  
  
“Five!”

  
  
Jisung tugs at the hem of Jaemin’s shirt as if to pull him forward. The tug is light but Jaemin stumbles forward as if pushed. He crashes into Jisung’s chest like a wave breaking against the shore, and it knocks the air out of him. Adrenaline bubbles inside of him like sea foam —light, effervescent. They’re so close that Jisung can see each freckle on Jaemin’s nose. He almost grows cross-eyed.

  
  
“Four!”

  
  
Jaemin’s eyes flick down to Jisung’s lips.

  
  
“Three!”

  
  
Jaemin swallows and Jisung watches the bob of his adam’s apple. Is he as nervous as Jisung feels?

  
  
“Two!” 

  
  
Jaemin sucks in a breath. “Can I-?”

  
  
“One!”

  
  
Jisung nods and his eyes flutter shut. The last second feels like an eternity. Like forever. It’s so drawn out that Jisung starts to think he may die before Jaemin kisses him, but then there are a pair of lips brushing his own and oh. _Oh_.

  
  
Outside, the fireworks go off, a cacophony of squeals as they shoot off into the night sky to burn, for a second, like stars. Everyone cheers and hollers and the kitchen lights up in colours of red, gold, and green. There’s so much going on, and yet all Jisung can focus on is Jaemin. All Jisung can focus on is the feeling of their lips together, rippling and pushing and pulling.

  
  
All Jisung can focus on is the way Jaemin sighs against his lips like this is something he’s been waiting for.

 

All Jisung can focus on is the feeling of Jaemin smiling into the kiss, the feeling of his chest rumbling like an earthquake under Jisung’s palms as he giggles against Jisung’s lips, the feeling of Jaemin’s fingers carding through Jisung’s hair.

  
  
All Jisung can focus on is the way Jaemin kisses. He kisses like wildfire: untamed and burning.

 

Jisung can’t get enough of it.

  
  
They kiss until they’re breathless and giddy. Jaemin pulls back and rests his forehead against Jisung’s to breathe. Though they’re not kissing anymore, they can’t part; this is something they’ve been waiting for for too long. 

  
  
They kiss long into the night. They kiss until the fireworks have fizzled out and the stars no longer burn in the night sky; until the others have left and the house is silent save for the brush of skin against skin; until the sun peeks up from the corner of the sky and Jisung grows tired but he doesn’t want to stop.

  
  
“It’s okay,” Jaemin says around a yawn.

  
  
They’re still pressed up against each other, almost chest to chest under Jisung’s covers. Jaemin’s clasping one of Jisung’s hands, stroking the dip between his thumb and finger. It tickles, but Jisung doesn’t tell him to let go.

  
  
“What’s okay?” Jisung says. His voice is gravelly with sleep.

  
  
“I’ll wake you up with kisses. We can kiss after breakfast. You can wave me off at the door with a kiss.” The thought is so domestic that it has Jisung’s toes curling with excitement. “We have forever to kiss, Sungie. If we keep kissing now then we’ll run out of steam.”

  
  
Jisung watches as Jaemin’s eyes fall shut, too heavy with sleep to keep open. Jisung leans in and plants a kiss square on Jaemin’s forehead.

  
  
“I could never tire of kissing you,” Jisung says. He thinks he sees Jaemin’s lips quirk up, but then again he’s tired. He must be imagining things.

  
  
Jisung shuts his eyes and allows himself to focus on the steady rhythm of Jaemin’s heartbeat and the weight of Jaemin’s hands around his own, wrapping around them like paper around a present. Like petals around a flower that hasn’t yet bloomed. He falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

On the eve of Jisung’s seventeenth birthday, the moon hangs in the sky like a lantern. It flickers behind the clouds like a candlelight in the wind. The world is oddly silent: though winter is almost over, the wind is frozen in the trees and the stars do not blink. It’s as though the world is watching and waiting.

  
  
It unsettles Jisung and he almost doesn’t leave his house, but the thought of Jaemin’s kisses and Jaemin’s hugs and just Jaemin in general has him feeling brave again. The promise of Jaemin, the promise of forever with Jaemin, could have Jisung journeying to the ends of the Earth. It’s the sort of love one would fight for, one would die for. It’s the sort of love one would immortalise in art and poetry. Movies are made about it, tapestries woven to tell their story. It’s the sort of love that time and distance can’t break.

  
  
Jisung steps out into the garden and trudges across the lawn to pass through the gate into Jaemin’s garden. The night is still silent but no longer is Jisung on edge.

  
  
Jisung steps across the boundary from his garden into Jaemin’s, and as he does, something seems to shift. The trees stir to life, their branches waving and beckoning. The flowers bow their heads, the birds look away. The great oak tree that holds the treehouse is almost bare, winter having stripped away all of its leaves. All of its leaves save for one, a small, bright orange leaf that sits on the tip of a spindly branch.

  
  
The wind picks up again and no longer is the world silent. It roars to life and the tree sways with its energy. The single leaf on the tip of the branch holds on as tight as it can, but something has to give. The wind rips the leaf from the tree and carries it through the air. It spirals to the ground and all Jisung can do is watch as it falls.

  
  
And just as sudden as it came, the wind dies down. The leaf is left to float in free fall. It twirls in the air for a brief moment above the place that Jisung stands and then it trickles to the ground like snow. Just as it passes in front of him, Jisung reaches out and grabs it.

  
  
Jisung has never been a superstitious person. Things like magic or fate or forever have always seemed impossible to him, but meeting Jaemin, loving Jaemin, being with Jaemin, makes the impossible possible.

 

When Jisung was a child he was told stories about wishes. He learnt how to wish upon a star. He was told that you could catch wishes and you could whisper your heart’s desires to them and they would make them come true. He was told that these wishes could come in many different forms, and one of these, a leaf just fallen from a tree that hasn’t yet touched the ground. Jisung holds a wish in his hands.

 

There’s so much he could do with it. He could wish for fame.

 

He imagines it now. Park Jisung, the overnight celebrity. What could he possibly have done to deserve the paparazzi camping out on his front lawn? What could he possibly have done to deserve the abundance of wealth in his bank account? His name is plastered all over the tabloids, his eyes hurt from the constant camera flashes. He can’t go anywhere without being hounded, and for the safety of his friends and family, he distances himself. He distances himself from _Jaemin._

 

This isn’t what Jisung wants.

 

He could wish for Jaemin to love him, and only him.

 

It would be much of the same now, but Jaemin’s eyes don’t stray; he looks only for Jisung. They love each other eternally, and they spend their rest of their lives together. They move to a little seaside town and adopt a dog and live out their days in peace and harmony. But there’s always the lingering fear in the back of Jisung’s mind that maybe if Jisung hadn’t made that wish, Jaemin would’ve fallen out love. That maybe the love that Jaemin feels for him is all magic and no truth.

 

This isn’t what Jisung wants, either.

 

Jisung would never wish for fame for he knows that fate always finds a way to trick the fortunate. Jisung would never wish for Jaemin to love him, either, for Jaemin already does. And if there comes a time where Jaemin stops loving Jisung, then who is Jisung to hold him down? To force him to stay? Jisung promised himself that he would never do that.

 

And then it dawns upon him. Jisung _promised_ …

 

He promised Jaemin forever. But he also promised himself that he would never hold Jaemin down.

 

Jisung knows what he wants.

 

He cups the leaf in his hand and brings it to his lips. Though he whispers his wish it feels as though he’s shouted it: everything is listening; the trees, the flowers, the sky. As he finishes his final words, the wind picks up and steals the leaf from Jisung’s grasp. He gasps and lunges for it, but the wind carries it past his reach, as if laughing. Jisung knows that once he’s wished, he can’t take it back.

 

The leaf flutters out of view and Jisung isn’t sure what to do. Nothing happens. Jisung almost laughs at himself: he got so riled up over nothing, but just as he makes to go into Jaemin’s house, he finds that he can’t move.

 

“What?” Jisung frowns. He tries to take another step but he can’t. He looks down at his feet, wondering just what it is that’s stopping him from moving, and he gasps. This isn’t what Jisung wished for.

 

His feet are sinking like the ground is quicksand, but Jisung knows in his mind that it’s not. The ground is soil. Jisung has walked here hundreds of times before, has grown up nurtured by these very grounds. And yet the ground is swallowing him like a flytrap and Jisung can’t escape.

 

He sinks lower and lower and while he tries to wiggle his toes or kick his foot to help his escape, he finds that he’s moving nothing. It’s an unusual feeling, knowing that there should be something there, but there isn’t. The only confirmation that Jisung gets that something beyond his control is happening is the fact that his shoes are sitting on the grass while he sinks into the ground. Jisung holds his breath.

 

If his feet are meant to be in his shoes, and his shoes are on the ground, then where are his feet? Jisung attempts to wiggle his toes again but he feels nothing.

 

“Help!” Jisung cries out into the dead of night. As he does, he appears to sink quicker. He’s up to his waist now and his trousers are laying on the ground. “Jaemin!”

 

Jisung cranes his neck to steal a peek of the light coming from Jaemin’s room. It’s unwavering, as though Jaemin doesn’t hear him. Why can’t Jaemin hear him?

 

“Jaemin, please,” Jisung sobs out now, but sobbing is hard because he’s up to his chest and he can’t feel anything below his collarbones.

 

“Hyung-” his voice is broken. He’s up to his neck.

 

Jisung snaps his head back to face the stars and he sees the moon staring back at him, cold and mocking. He would curse the moon but he can feel the soil creeping up his cheeks and he doesn’t want his last words to be born of anger and hatred.

 

“Jaemin,” Jisung whispers out into the night as he drowns. Jaemin’s light is unwavering. The wind doesn’t move. Nobody hears him.

 

What happens next is a very curious thing. It’s hard to explain in words, hard to describe, for it’s so unbelievable that no matter what’s said, you won’t believe it.

 

When Jisung sinks into the ground he does not die. He does not drown, either, like he thought he would; Jisung wished for forever, and death would defeat the whole point of the wish.

 

When Jisung sinks into the ground, his skin crumbles into soil. His nails turn into pebbles. His limbs stretch and contort and harden into root, twirling around the tree roots beneath him. His hair sheds and curls into worms. His soul melts into the ground like water and the roots suck it up. Jisung becomes one with the oak tree.

 

When Jisung sinks into the ground, he is reborn. Again, there is no way to explain this feeling, for it’s not one any of you can remember; it’s the feeling of being born. It feels like stretching for the first time: his limbs are longer, heavier, harder. He can feel the tree roots and the way they curl through the soil. He can feel each individual branch and how it sways with the wind. He can feel the treehouse, sitting heavy on his shoulder; he thinks that this must be what Atlas felt like, bearing the weight of the world on his back.

 

It takes time to process, for his thoughts jump from place to place. They jump from the unbearable weight of the treehouse to the tickle on one of the branches as some ants crawl between the ridges in the bark, to the constant draining feeling of water moving and flowing through the tree. Jisung begins to process these feelings and he pushes them to the back of his mind.

 

From so high up, Jisung can see everything. He can see both his and Jaemin’s houses, and beyond that: he can see across the road, into the park, over the horizon. It’s so much and it’s so overwhelming that all Jisung wants to do is cry but he can’t, because trees don’t cry. He wants to heave and sob and wail until his voice breaks but as the melancholy overtakes him, the most he can do is feel the branches twitch in the breeze.

 

Jisung wants to scream, but he has no voice. He wants to rustle the branches and pick up another leaf to reverse the wish, but with what hands? His wish can’t be undone; Jisung wished for forever and now he has it.

 

The light from Jaemin’s room ripples and Jisung jumps to attention. He sees through the tips of the branches as Jaemin comes to the window, his phone in his hand and a frown on his face. If Jisung were there, he would reach out and smooth out that frown. He would ask what’s wrong. He would clasp Jaemin’s hand between his own. All Jisung can do now is watch.

 

Jaemin looks down at his phone to type and then looks back up. He peers past the oak tree to Jisung’s house. It hurts because they’re so close but so far: Jisung wants to scream that he’s _“right here, hyung!”_ but he can’t.

 

Jaemin shrugs and pulls the blinds close, blocking Jisung out. The wind whistles. The branches rustle. All Jisung can do is wait until morning.

 

Jisung doesn’t sleep because he doesn’t get tired. He more or less zones out, focusing instead of moving water through the branches and flicking off bugs attempting to gnaw at the roots. He doesn’t let himself think because thinking is dangerous.

 

When Jisung focuses back again, the sun is just dawning and the birds are chirping in the trees. The wind was kind enough to leave Jisung’s clothes there at the base of the tree, the last piece of evidence that Jisung was there. That Jisung was more than root and bark.

 

Jaemin comes down a little after dawn and stands in the garden, hugging himself against the cold. He squints at Jisung’s house, wondering if he should go over. Jaemin steps off the deck and down to the grass. Jisung vibrates with anticipation. He summons as much strength as he can in the tips of the branches and manages to get them to sway. They barely brush the top of Jaemin’s head, but it’s enough.

 

Jaemin freezes and looks up at the branch.

 

“There’s no wind,” Jaemin says. Jisung almost bursts at the seams. _Yes, yes, yes, there’s no wind! Maybe he can figure it out!_ Jisung tries again but this time, the wind picks up. Jaemin shrugs. “Yeah. Just the wind.”

 

Jisung relaxes and lets himself be tossed about. _That moment of strength was for nothing,_ he thinks, until Jaemin freezes again. His gaze is drawn down to the pile of clothes at the base of the tree. Jisung feels himself come alive.

 

Jaemin treads over, his steps tentative. He crouches over the pile of clothes strewn about and picks up the shirt between his thumb and forefinger to ensure that, yes, this is Jisung’s shirt. Still crouching, Jaemin pulls out his phone and hurriedly texts Jisung.

 

Over his shoulder, Jisung sees Jaemin press send. A ‘ding’ sounds from underneath the clothes.

 

Jaemin peels back the shirt and rummages through Jisung’s trouser pockets. He pulls out Jisung’s phone.

 

Jaemin’s eyes squeeze shut and his lips draw into a thin line. With Jisung’s phone in hand, he trudges past the oak tree and into Jisung’s garden, where he enters the house and disappears from view.

 

Though Jisung tries, he can’t hear anything that’s being said, nor can he see anything inside the house. But in the distance, the sound of police sirens is unmistakable, and the flashes of blue and red have the water stilling in his veins.

 

The police go first to Jisung’s house. Jisung can’t hear anything, and when he asks the grass to listen in for him, they turn their backs. Jisung is left to worry, shaking off the ants and untangling the spider webs until the police emerge from the house. This time, they go to Jaemin’s garden.

 

They stand over the pile of clothes and one of the officers pulls out a camera.

 

“What do you think?” an officer asks as they photograph the pile of clothes. “I say a runaway.”

 

“A runaway that stripped naked in his boyfriend’s garden?” The camera flashes and the officer laughs. “You’re an idiot. This is something else. Something more.”

 

The first officer hums. “You think it’s the boyfriend?”

 

Another flash. The officer holding the camera shrugs. “Hard to tell. He seemed upset enough. You can’t fake tears like that.”

 

Jisung wants to scream until his voice muffles the wind. He wants to tell them that they’re wrong, that Jaemin would never hurt him. He wants to reach down with his branches and whack them until they apologise to Jaemin. He wants to use those same branches to wipe away Jaemin’s tears, because Jaemin should never cry over Jisung. That wasn’t what Jisung wanted when he confessed back then.

 

“But there’s just something odd about this. Why the clothes in the garden, if he did run away? And if he didn’t, why the clothes again? Where’s the body?”

 

 _Right here!_ Jisung cries. _Right in front of you!_

 

But they don’t hear him.

 

Nobody hears him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Park Jisung does not fit the definition of tragedy, but there is no other way to describe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long. the next chapter shall have a shorter wait as i've already written it! please let me know what you thought, comments are my (& tree!jisung's) lifeblood. 
> 
> also omg so much narration........ i apologise 
> 
> chapter song: scratches by kyte

 

 

Jisung only begins to pay attention to the passage of time when the first leaves of spring bloom from his barren branches. They bud and twine from between the bark, each new leaf feeling like an extension of his body. It feels like stretching after waking up from a deep slumber, and Jisung feels revitalised. When the clouds part for the sun rays at dawn, Jisung turns to the sky and soaks up every last drop of light. It becomes his lifeblood.

 

Spring floods the garden with life. No longer does Jisung spend his days staring at Jaemin’s curtains or watching his mother potter about the kitchen; now, he’s far too preoccupied by the wrens building nests up in the treetops and some curious squirrels settling in an empty hollow. Jisung had always been told that time moves slowly when you’re young but as you age, it accelerates to the point that a year feels like a week and a day is but an hour. Jisung thinks this untrue: he’s only aged a month and yet it feels like years have passed. Memories of his childhood are fickle and he has to burrow deep into the depths of his mind to excavate them.

 

He pulls out memories of their first meeting. Jaemin, a scrawny child with large, doe eyes, peering at a younger, more tentative Jisung, with something akin to curiosity and amusement. Jaemin and their first sleepover, where Jisung had crawled out of his sleeping bag and slipped under the covers besides Jaemin. Jaemin had squealed at first, surprised at the sudden contact, but quickly eased and wrapped his arms around Jisung’s waist, pulling him in. Jaemin and his graduation from elementary school where he left Jisung heartbroken and alone. Who else was he meant to play with during break time? Who else would be his bestest friend in the whole entire world?

 

Jisung wishes he could store memories the way he stores water in the tips of his branches, but memories transcend all things physical. They are a part of the soul, woven by love and dreams, and no amounts of deconstruction could ever reduce them to synapses and chemicals, for Jisung knows that they’re more than science. When Jisung melts into the ground he leaves behind his body and becomes _soul_ and he takes his memories with him. He takes his love, too, for loving Jaemin is so ingrained into Jisung that he thinks he’ll take it into the afterlife as well.

 

Jisung has no heart but when he catches glimpses of Jaemin through the cracks of his curtain in early morning or hears echoes of his laugh carried by the wind, something inside him _yearns_. It weighs down heavy in his soul, throbbing with such restrained desire that sometimes Jisung thinks he may shatter.

 

Jisung soon comes to realise that heart is more than muscle and sinew; heart is soul, and when Jisung melts, he takes it with him, too.

 

 

 

 

The days that the policemen come are the worst.

 

Jisung’s long since attuned his hearing to catch the squeal of their tires against the tarmac before he catches sight of them. A feeling like anger simmers inside of him as they park outside of his house and trudge up the pathway to knock on his front door. Jisung can never hear what they say, but he can see very clearly. Their lips are pressed into thin lines and when they speak, it’s not with respect, but with caution. They’re suspicious of everyone and everything — _almost,_ Jisung thinks with a laugh, _who would be suspicious of a tree?_ — and it sets him on edge. He bristles when he hears them and his branches relax when they leave.

 

The days that they accost Jaemin anger Jisung the most. First it started with taking him down to the station. Jisung hated this most because not only could he not hear, but he could not see, either. Then, it progressed to them looking around his house for what must have been the hundredth time. Then, it was them getting Jaemin to walk them around the garden. It was them pointing to the spot where Jisung had melted away, leaving behind a pile of clothes.

 

“How do you explain this?” an officer says, pointing to the ground. Jaemin’s face is blank but that’s not what scares Jisung: it’s his eyes, lifeless, staring down at the ground like a winter’s moon. Jisung’s never seen Jaemin so devoid of emotion, so cold; if Jaemin were ever to have a reputation, it would be one of _life._ Now, he looks halfway to dead.

 

Jaemin shrugs, still staring at the place the officer is pointing at, his eyes burning through the grass and soil and Jisung wishes they could burrow down to see the root, to see _Jisung_. Since that fateful day, Jaemin hasn’t looked his way once. It’s as though he can’t bear the sight of the tree let alone the treehouse. Being so close yet so far to Jaemin fills Jisung with an odd sense of hope — he knows that he’s so close, that if the conditions are right then maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to break free from this wish (though Jisung thinks of it more as a curse) — but if anything begins to crush Jisung’s hope, it’s that Jaemin doesn’t look at him. Not once.

 

Jisung can’t blame him; it’s not as if Jaemin knows that he was sucked into the soil and his soul bound to a tree. Jisung can’t blame him and yet as each day passes without so much as a look, so much as a touch, he feels a shard of his soul slip between the cracks. It’s hard not to lose yourself when you’ve lost everything else.

 

“Are you ever going to say anything?” the officer says when Jaemin remains silent, his gaze still fixed on that fateful spot. It’s been grown over by lush spring grass and Jisung can feel the beginnings of crocuses blooming under the thin layer of soil, but Jaemin can’t know that. Some part of Jisung is glad that he doesn’t; the crocuses will be a gift. “Jaemin, you have to give us something.”

 

“There’s nothing,” Jaemin says. His eyes flicker from the grass to the officer and then, to the sky. He peers up through the cracks in the trees at dull grey sky, just beginning to wash over with a warm spring blue. “I have nothing.”

 

Something inside Jisung breaks into a million pieces. He hopes it’s not his soul.

 

 

 

 

 

Jisung sees Jaemin smile towards the end of spring, and it feels like the first time.

 

The police have long since stopped coming, and good riddance, Jisung thinks. Well, that’s what he thinks at first. It’s strange, but Jisung begins to miss the police; they’re a reminder that somebody _cares_ , that they’re still looking for him, in all the wrong places, mind you, but looking nonetheless. When Jisung peers into his living room he doesn’t see his face over the news anymore. The fliers tacked up on light posts are torn off by the wind. His name fades into memory.

 

Without the police, Jisung’s strong sense of hope begins to fade, too. Who else is looking for him? His mother does not cry on patio each night, her face turned to the sky as if to plead with any deity that would listen for her son’s safe return. Now, she slips into bed before the sun has set and is asleep before the gods open their ears to prayer. His father is out more than he’s in. Jisung used to tell himself it’s because he’s out looking, but when he stumbles home drunk, legs wobbling like a sailor who’s just stepped foot on land, this hope fades, too. His school friends used to come and talk with his mother, but these days they turn their heads away when they pass his house.

 

Jaemin is the only constant, and yet he still does not _look_. But maybe Jisung’s being too selfish. Maybe he’s expecting miracles from man.

 

If there was ever a miracle Jaemin worked, it would be his smile. Jisung can remember the moment that he first discovered he liked boys: it had been Jaemin’s smile that did it. That smooth yet crooked smile lit fires in the pit of Jisung’s stomach. He had gone home and shut his eyes and tried his best to replay the moment in his mind, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t.

 

From thereon out it became his life’s goal to make Jaemin smile.

 

But, when Jisung made his wish, he didn’t think of Jaemin’s smile. Maybe if he’d been thinking of that smile, sweet and crooked, he would never have signed his future away. Jisung did not _think._ His wish is a curse that steals smiles and Jisung can’t stop it. He hasn’t seen Jaemin smile once since that day and as his memories grow fuzzy at the edges, he forgets the little details in his smile that make it _Jaemin’s_.

 

Jisung often sees Jaemin coming home from school, his uniform wrinkled and his eyes heavy with sleep. He’s alone more often that not and the friends he does bring over don’t stay for longer than an hour. The day that Jaemin brings _him_ home, it’s hot outside and the air swims with thick heat. The birds grow restless and take to sheltering themselves in Jisung’s shade.

 

Jisung recognises him as a senior, a year above them. It’s not strange that Jaemin has friends of all different ages: he’s sought after, the kind of person people ache to befriend regardless of age, and Jisung himself is younger. It’s not the age that’s a surprise but the fact that it’s _Mark Lee._ If anyone were to rival Jaemin’s status as the most sought after, it would be Mark, ever kind, the ‘golden child’ of the school.

 

Mark Lee lives up to his nickname, Jisung finds. He’s gentle with Jaemin in the way Jisung wishes he could be. When Jaemin asks a question Mark answers enthusiastically, even though it’s something as mundane as _“do you prefer your toast with or without crusts?”_

 

They study in the shade of the tree and as they pick their spot, Jisung subtly repositions the leaves and branches to give them more shade. Jaemin rolls a checkered picnic blanket out to cover the grass and is careful to avoid the place where Jisung’s clothes were found, and he eyes it as he smooths out the creases in the fabric. Mark’s curious. His eyes are wide and glittering as he spins on his heel to take in the sprawling roses lining the fence and the birdbath in the centre of the garden. When he comes to the tree, however, he falters, and something inside his eyes dulls. _How interesting,_ Jisung thinks.

 

“Nice treehouse,” Mark says, still staring up at the tree in awe. Jisung withers under his gaze, wondering if his leaves are too green, if they’re too unruly, if his bark is too wrinkled. _Mark Lee_ is staring at him.

 

“Hm?” Jaemin looks up from where he’s pulling textbooks out of his bag. He follows Mark’s gaze up to the tree and, for the first time, looks at Jisung. If Mark’s gaze had Jisung withering then Jaemin’s is a breath of life. It feels like sunlight against his skin and he stands upright with renewed vigour.

 

Jaemin’s eyes swim with unshed tears as they gloss over the treehouse and Jisung wilts slightly at that. He wishes that there was something he could say or do to stop him being so sad.

 

“Sorry,” Mark says once he notices Jaemin’s shift in demeanour. “I didn’t mean to—”

 

Jaemin shakes his head. “It’s fine.” He crosses his legs and leans back on his palms to stare up at the treehouse. Mark takes a seat next to him, their hands inches away from each other. When Jaemin shows no sign of a smile, Mark covers Jaemin’s hand with his own, and only then does Jaemin blink away the tears.

 

“Did you used to play up there together?” Mark prods when the silence gets too much. _Stupid,_ Jisung thinks. _How is it any of your business to ask?_ But to Jisung’s surprise, Jaemin perks up. He nods, still not tearing his gaze away.

 

“From the day we met up until…” Jaemin swallows. “Yeah. It was _our_ place, you know? We’d string up fairy light and built pillow fortresses. Sometimes we’d eat up there and our parents would hate it.”

 

Mark giggles, watching Jaemin’s face as he recalls the past. “That’s so cute.”

 

“He was. He’d bug me to eat up there even though it was cold, and I’m pretty sure I got sick a few times but it was worth it, you know? We promised each other we’d visit the treehouse forever.” Jaemin’s voice takes on a watery quality. Mark notices the change and his smile falters, too.

 

“Sorry I’m making you talk about this,” he says, voice soft.

 

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “No, I’m sorry about making you listen. I don’t really talk much about it, so…”

 

“It’s alright. I’m glad you were able to share it with me,” he smiles. “Do you still go up to the treehouse?” Jaemin shakes his head. “For what it’s worth, I think you should.”

 

Jaemin tears his gaze away from the treehouse to stare at Mark in question. “What do you mean?”

 

Mark looks away, sheepish at the sudden attention, and if Jisung wasn’t torn between being jealous and being crushed at Jaemin’s sadness, he would’ve found it cute. “Well… when my grandma died I would drape myself in the blankets she knitted. It was comforting knowing that she knit each stitch with me in mind. It felt like a hug even though she wasn’t there. The treehouse is similar for you, I guess. When you talk about it you light up.”

 

Jaemin frowns. “But I promised him we’d visit the treehouse forever. How can I, now that…”

 

“Promises like that aren’t easy to break, and who knows? Maybe if you talk, he’ll listen.” _I’ll listen,_ Jisung thinks. _I’ll always listen._ Even though Jisung was initially filled with something like jealousy, he can’t help but be grateful to Mark for saying everything he wants to say, but can’t. Maybe Mark will be the kind of friend that can help ease Jaemin’s pain.

 

Jaemin looks away from Mark and sighs, his eyebrows furrowing in thought as he mulls over his words. Jisung watches with anticipation as he seems to reach his final conclusion. The thought of Jaemin looking at him again, being close to him, _talking_ to him, has Jisung buzzing with excitement.

 

Jaemin brushes his fingers over the tips of the blades of grass when they land upon a singular golden crocus. Jisung grows even more excited: he had almost forgotten about his gift. The other crocuses had long since withered away, melting back into the soil, and this was the last. At Jaemin’s touch it springs to life, fanning out its pretty golden petals in a peacock-like display, yearning to be picked. Jaemin stares at it for a long, hard moment, before he digs down and plucks the flower from the grass.

 

He holds it in his hand, a mellow golden glow dusting over his skin. He smooths over the petals with a gentle finger, treating the flower with the utmost delicacy. _It suits him,_ Jisung thinks, _a flower the colour of sunlight._

 

Jaemin twirls the flower around and then he _smiles._ It blossoms on his face, slow and soft, and Jisung almost doesn’t realise what’s happening until happiness blossoms in his heart, too. Jaemin looks up from the flower to the treehouse, the smile still on his face, and if man can work miracles then Jaemin’s smile is magic only the gods are capable of.

 

“Maybe,” Jaemin says.

 

 _Yes,_ Jisung thinks. _This is hope._

 

 

 

 

 

From then on, Jaemin spends his evenings in the treehouse. They would only ever go up there together, and it wasn’t as regular an occurrence as their parents made it out to be (Jisung’s mum hated the treehouse — she said they’d just catch a cold). Now, it’s routine.

 

He does his homework up there one some days. Jisung can hear the scratching of pens and the soft click as he inputs numbers into the calculator. On other days, he eats up there, the scent of fast food making Jisung’s mouth water; eating sunlight isn’t as great as all the romantic poets make it out to be.

 

Sometimes he would sit at the foot of the tree just by the ladder, his back pressed to the bark, and it would feel like something of a hug. Jisung would focus his conscience down onto that place and revel in the feeling of _Jaemin._

 

Most days he just talks, about anything and everything. Jaemin is his only contact with the outside world. He sees his parents as they bustle about the kitchen and can sometimes hear when they fight (he tunes this out to the best of his abilities) but he does not hear what they talk about. It’s Jaemin that fills him in. It almost feels like they’re back at school, pressed into the corner of the classroom on a summer’s day, eating lunch and gossiping.

 

“Your parents are getting divorced,” Jaemin says and Jisung’s stomach sinks to his feet. He wonders if it’s because of him. It wouldn’t be too unlikely. “Don’t blame yourself, though. That’s a very _you_ thing to do. It’s not your fault, you’re just the excuse.”

 

Jisung knows that Jaemin’s right but it doesn’t stop him splintering a tree branch with the effort of containing all of his rage.

 

Another day, Jaemin tells him about his plans for the future.

 

“I think I told you before that I wanted to a doctor. I’m not really sure about that anymore. I’m failing bio.” Jaemin sighs and shifts around in the tree house. Jisung juggles his weight. “I think… I think that I want to be nothing,” he says, and something like lightning strikes Jisung’s heart. Something like fear.

 

When Jaemin climbs down the ladder of the treehouse that night, Jisung spends all of his energy willing the branches the keep him to stay. They do not listen, and Jaemin falls further out of his grasp.

 

 

 

 

 

Some days, he says nothing. These are the worst.

 

 

 

 

 

Some days he cries with such anguish that his tears flood the garden.

 

“You’re so cruel, Park Jisung,” Jaemin says, his voice low with anger and resentment.

 

He’s making Jaemin cry and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he were able to, he would hold Jaemin in his arms and kiss the nape of his neck. They would talk in a fortress made of blankets and Jisung would ready his spear against the next army of tears threatening them.

 

As he is, all Jisung can do is listen. The frustration of being entombed in a body of wood has him so angry and irritable that sometimes, he thinks he may explode. Shards of wood and splinters would spray over the garden and, amongst a pile of sawdust, Jisung would rise like a phoenix. He would run first to Jaemin and wipe away his tears. He would kiss his forehead, and then his nose, and then his lips. They would kiss for so long that their breath would splinter inside of their lungs and they, too, would explode.

 

If forever with Jaemin is laden with pain and tears then Jisung would trade it all for just a short, sweet minute, filled with love and tender touches. But Jisung can’t wish. He can’t love Jaemin the way he wants, either. All he can do force himself to remain sturdy and keep holding up the treehouse, because if he loses the treehouse then he’s just one step closer to losing Jaemin, too.

 

 

 

 

 

Some days, they are reckless.

 

“I failed my exams. Want to burn them with me?”

 

Jaemin drags over an old plant pot to the base of the tree and throws in his exam papers where they flutter to the bottom and settle like snow. He uses the lighter fluid he stole from the garden shed and douses them. It smells terrible. So terrible, in fact, that some of Jisung’s leaves curl into themselves.

 

He then takes out a lighter from his pocket. It’s unremarkable, a cheap silver lighter that can be bought from any corner store, but Jaemin holds it like he’s got a gun in his hand. He flicks off the cap with deft fingers and lights it up. The flame is small and flickers in the wind, but in the dead of night it roars like wildfire. Primal fear takes root in Jisung’s bones; this flame could be his undoing, but it’s Jaemin holding it and Jisung trusts Jaemin more than he trusts himself.

 

He drops the lighter into the pot and it bursts into flames. A tower of smoke and embers rise up through the night and choke Jisung, but he tolerates it. He has no choice. Jaemin stands over the pot until the fire mellows down and all that’s left is ash, and then he turns on his heel and walks back into the house.

 

Jisung thought that would be the last he saw of that lighter. Jaemin and fire is a concept that Jisung had never before entertained, but he soon comes to realise that Jaemin and fire are one and the same: Jaemin’s kisses were burning and all-consuming, his words would simmer with untold desire, his touches would leave fires in the pit of Jisung’s stomach.

 

Jaemin’s love sears Jisung’s soul and he traces the burns on his lips with fond memory. He wishes he could feel that heat again. He would let himself go up in flames if it meant he had so much as a chance.

 

On the nights Jaemin sits in the tree house in silence he flicks the lighter up. Jisung can see the shadows of the flame as they dance across the walls, itching to escape. Jaemin doesn’t let them go.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mum hid the photo albums. She thinks that if I see a picture of you, I’ll break. I’m not made of glass, Sungie, I’m flesh and blood, just like you. I found them under her bed, and guess what, I’m going to look through them. Guess this is my rebellious phase.”

 

Some part of Jisung wishes he could see the photos. It’s only been a few months but memories are fickle and Jisung’s sure that he’s lost some amongst the tangle of root and leaves, which is why the days that they reminisce are Jisung’s favourite.

 

“Do you remember when we ran away together?”

 

The memory hits him like a tidal wave. How could he ever forget? They were young and stupid without a care in the world. They did not appreciate loss. They were strangers to misery and grief and did not understand what they were doing for they thought only of themselves, but they were children, and the crimes of children are forgivable.

 

Running away with Jaemin was the most thrilling thing six year old Jisung had ever done. For twenty four hours they were let loose in the streets to paint the town red. They were not held back by their parents and the law couldn’t touch them. They were free spirits.

 

They first devised the plan in the tree house. Jaemin had stolen a map from his parent’s car and Jisung was the one who provided the crayons for them to mark out their trail. It started at Jaemin’s house and then wound its way through the streets to the heart of Seoul, and then back out again into the mountains. They would take a bus to see the city lights and then sleep in a cave amongst the creatures of smoke and shadow.

 

“I’m scared,” Jisung had told Jaemin. There were no secrets between them and though Jisung had tried to put up a brave front it was quickly crumbling. “What if the monsters get us?”

 

Jaemin puts down his crayon and shuffles over the map to take Jisung into his arms. “Don’t worry Sungie, I’ll protect you. I’d never let anything happen to you.” And six-year-old Jisung had believed him, as all six year olds do.

 

They had filled their backpacks with food from Jisung’s kitchen, a cornucopia of bread and jams, bananas and apples. Jisung had insisted they take a tub of ice cream because _what if something goes wrong and we get sad and there’s no ice cream to fix it?_ but Jaemin said no, and Jaemin’s older and wiser so Jisung inevitably listened. Just before the sun set, they snuck out of Jaemin’s back garden. From the moment they stepped foot on the pavement there was a sense of recklessness and danger. They knew at the back of their minds that what they were doing was wrong but they couldn’t help but continue.

 

The bus had taken them to Bukhansan national park and it was there that they would find their cave. Jaemin’s Dad had shown it to him when the family went on a trip one day, and Jaemin had marked it on his map with a big, red circle. They slipped into the park behind a family with other children and when Jaemin was sure where he was going, they broke away.

 

After a long and arduous climb they reached the cave, and it was there that they found their snapshot of forever. They ate jam bread for dinner and brushed their teeth with their fingers; when it got cold at night they snuggled up next to each other beneath the blankets and fell asleep like that, bodies and hearts intertwined.

 

When morning broke the cave full was of golden light. Jisung woke up first, his back sore, unused to the hard ground. Jaemin was fast asleep and Jisung hadn’t the heart to wake him. He slipped from under the blanket and plodded to the entrance of the cave. It was cold. So cold, in fact, that when he stepped into the sunlight he felt his blood thaw.

 

It was so bright that for a moment, Jisung was blinded, but his eyes soon adjusted to the light and when they did, he found himself on top of the world. Clouds dusted the horizon, breezing through the tops of evergreen trees that rose from the landscape like pillars. The Earth dipped and curved, the mountains rising so high that the clouds had to bend over backwards to move around them. But it was the sun that reigned supreme. The sun moved for nothing, and nothing could escape her watch as dawn broke and light like a river of gold flooded the Earth. And Jisung was standing above it all, watching as everything drowned in a cosmic shimmer.

 

Though he could see a group of policeman making their way up the side of the mountain, those few seconds where his icy blood turned to light felt like forever. He wondered if this was what God felt like, sitting high above the plane of reality — in this moment, he was invincible.

 

The Jaemin of the present gives a hopeless laugh. “I ran away with you because I thought in the back of my mind we could spend forever together. It’s silly, isn’t it? The idea of forever.”

 

He’s giving up. He’s clinging onto memories and forgetting the future.

 

The idea of forever isn’t stupid because Jisung knows in his heart that he’ll love Jaemin until the end of time. Perhaps people would tell them that they’re stupid to call what they have love, and perhaps people would tell them that they’re stupid to want to have it for forever, but Jisung knows deep down that this is his truth. Jaemin is his truth.

 

To Jisung, the greatest landmark in Seoul will never be the skyscrapers or the years of history etched in the streets and the sides of mountains, but the memories he made with the boy next door with a smile like summer and a heart of gold.

 

“Thoughts and memories of you will linger at the back of my mind for the rest of eternity. I will cry for you. I will love you. You didn’t come back yesterday, you didn’t come back today, and you may not come back tomorrow, either, but I won’t let you go. There will always be a shard of my heart that has your name etched onto it. I’ll love you until I turn to stardust.”

 

Aristotle said that tragedy is a drama which depicts the downfall of an honest and true person, often of noble birth, through a fatal error or misjudgement. The story of Park Jisung does not fit these rigid constraints. Jisung was not born of nobility: his parents aren’t royals or nobles and they could not be called rich, either. _Unremarkable_ is the word Jisung finds himself drawn to. And Jisung was not a tragic hero in the classical sense. He was no Achilles; he did not spill his blood in battle, did not brandish his sword through fields of fire. He was no Othello, either. Aristotle speaks of a fatal flaw, of hamartia, and if Jisung were to have a fatal flaw it would be that he loved Na Jaemin so bravely and so truly that the heavens could not stand it.

 

The story of Park Jisung does not fit the definition of tragedy, but there is no other way to describe it. Thoughts and memories of Jisung will linger at the back of Jaemin’s mind for the rest of eternity. Though Jisung is no longer here, he still makes Jaemin cry. Though Jisung is no longer here, Jaemin will continue to love him.

 

Jaemin can’t let him go. This is tragedy.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the King of Death  
> had arrived to feast, stalking  
> out of winter woods,  
> his black mouth  
> sprouting golden crocuses.
> 
> \- THE GUN, vicki feaver


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to go,” Jaemin says. His voice trembles around the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been a while, but i am here! this will be coming to a close, soon. i'm not sure how many more chapters as if i put all the content i had into one it would be a monster chapter, but i'd prefer to release them slowly in parts. 
> 
> please let me know what you thought!
> 
> chapter song(s): ghostin - ariana grande, water under the bridge - adele, midsummer madness - 88rising

 

 

As a child, Jisung’s summers were spent lounging by the pool, dressed down in his swimming costume. He would eat ice lollies instead of lunch and they would melt in the summer heat, the sticky juice dripping down his wrist in rivulets. He would lift it to his mouth and lap up what he could with his tongue while his mother watched with a wrinkled nose. Jisung would laugh at her disgust and she would duck her head down to hide behind her book, but her small smile didn’t evade him.

 

Summers spent at home were always Jisung’s favourite, because they meant summers spent with Jaemin. They would spend the day at the pool together, talking and sipping on virgin mojitos on the sun chairs, and when they grew restless, they would take to the water, dive-bombing despite the numerous signs forbidding it.

 

When summer grew too hot and the sun, too ripe, they would wet flannels and lay on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, the flannels on their foreheads to ward off the heat. Jaemin would pant like a dog, his tongue hanging from his mouth, and Jisung would curl his lip up in disgust and kick his side.

 

Some days, their mothers would kick them outside, and they would chase each other around the garden with water pistols, spraying icy water. Jisung would collapse in the shade of the oak tree and peer up through the leaves to the summer sun, hanging ripe in the sky like an orange just waiting to be picked. In a moment of delirium, Jisung’s stomach would rumble and his mouth would grow watery. He’d reach up to pluck the sun from the sky and swallow it whole. Jaemin would meet him halfway to the clouds and would force a cup of water to Jisung’s lips, urging him to come back down to earth.

 

Summer is the time of teenagers. It’s a season of fun and recklessness — a season of firsts, of heartbreak. They ran away together when Jisung was six, and again in the summer after Jisung turned sixteen, the summer before he confessed. Memory fades over time, but the memory of that summer rings clear and true through Jisung’s mind. It’s like the sun, ever-bright and shining. Like a overripe orange, hanging heavy from a spindly tree branch, weighing down on Jisung’s mind.

 

It was a summer of recklessness. Of firsts. Of heartbreak.

 

Jaemin had come to Jisung just before midnight. Jisung was asleep, the heat of the day having sucked out all of his energy, and his phone was somewhere among the bedsheets. It didn’t vibrate with any messages or missed calls. Instead, there was an incessant plodding sound, like a singular drop of rain repeatedly hitting his window. Jaemin had been standing below his window, throwing pebbles at it in some kind of Shakespearean call. Jisung had thrown open his window, his curtains fluttering in the summer breeze, and had peered down at Jaemin who stood just below with a satisfied grin on his face.

 

Jaemin had whisked him away that night and taken him to his first and last party. It had been in the expensive part of Seoul in a gated estate with fast cars and trimmed hedges. Jisung wondered how Jaemin knew someone this rich.

 

The moment they stepped into the party, Jisung wanted to go home. The bass pouring through the speakers rattled his bones and the air was thick with smoke. Jisung knew going to a party would make him step out of his comfort zone but he hadn’t expected this.

 

Jaemin had pulled him through the crowded corridors and into the kitchen which was brighter and less claustrophobic. The floor was sticky with alcohol and plastic cups were strewn about. Various bottles that Jisung didn’t recognise were laid out on a table and the kitchen counter but Jisung didn’t need to recognise them to know that they were alcohol bottles; that’s what people do at parties, don’t they?

 

“You don’t have to,” Jaemin says as he twists open a bottle with deft fingers, picks up a glass, pours himself a shot, and downs it. His face twists as it slides down his throat and he slams the glass down on the counter, wiping his lips. A drop of alcohol sits on the corner of his mouth and his tongue pokes out to lick it away. Jisung swallows and averts his gaze. “I’m sure there’s orange juice in the fridge or something.”

 

Jisung scrunches up his face and takes the glass from the counter, holding it out. “I’m not a kid, hyung.”

  
Jaemin rolls his eyes and pours him a shot. Jisung hesitates, choosing instead to sip on it instead of throwing it back like Jaemin had done. It’s bitter, acidic, almost, and Jisung wants to spit it out but he forces himself to swallow it down.

 

Jisung knows very well that Jaemin would never force him, would never laugh at him had Jisung chosen orange juice or spat it out, but there’s something about tonight that makes Jisung want to let himself go. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline thrumming through him, rushing through his veins and raising him to heights he never thought he’d reach. Perhaps it’s Jaemin.

 

Jisung knows he’s drunk when he finds himself unable to stop staring at Jaemin. They’re still in the kitchen, Jaemin still pouring shots, and Jisung watches him, mesmerised. Mesmerised by the slope of his nose, the blush of his lips, how soft his hair looks, how pretty his eyelashes are. Jisung wants to kiss him everywhere.

 

“Sungie?” Jaemin had called out, sobering him up almost immediately as Jisung realises he’s been caught staring, but Jaemin doesn’t say anything. He simply smiles and circles his fingers around Jisung’s wrist. “Want to dance?”

 

Jisung knows he shouldn’t; the world is spinning around him. He feels like an astronaut in in outer space, floating amongst nothingness. His only tether is Jaemin and Jisung clings to him like a lifeline. He nods.

 

They end up in a room with speakers and strobe lights and an ocean of people rippling with the beat. There are bodies pressed up against him, hands in his hair, feet treading on the back of his heels, but Jisung doesn’t mind. He’s too far gone. Jaemin tugs him closer and they’re almost flush against each other, heart to heart, chest to chest. Jisung wonders if Jaemin can feel the butterfly thrum of his heart.

 

“So hot,” Jisung mumbles and Jaemin strains to hear him over the music.

 

“What? It’s hot in here?” Jisung hums though that’s not what he meant. “Want to leave?”

 

Jisung doesn’t want to leave. Leaving would mean pulling away from Jaemin and Jisung likes the feeling of Jaemin’s body against his own. Likes the smell of smoke and baby lotion, likes being able to feel Jaemin’s breath against his cheek. Jisung shakes his head and as he does the strobe lights bleed through the air and blur his vision into a fantastical display of colour. He’s drunk and it’s too hot and he can’t feel his brain but that’s okay because he’s dancing with Jaemin.

 

Jisung smiles. _He’s_ _dancing with Jaemin._ It seems almost a dream and Jisung feels himself sway with the realisation. His knees buckle and his mind shuts down. _He’s dancing with Jaemin._

 

In that moment, Jisung had looked at Jaemin and thought: _take all of me. Take my heart, take my body, take my soul. Pluck apart the sinew and muscle and take my blood and bones. Take the love I offer up on a silver platter, a sacrifice I give willingly. Take all of my firsts and allow me to be all of your lasts. Everything. Take everything._

 

In that moment, Jisung had realised that he’s never going to be able to love Jaemin the way he wants to. Jaemin is so close, barely a hair’s breadth away, and yet he’s forever falling through Jisung’s fingers.

 

His eyes well with tears and his heart lurches painfully. Jaemin freezes and holds Jisung by the shoulders.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, his eyes flooded with concern.

 

“It’s nothing,” Jisung said.

 

Jisung reduces everything he could offer to “nothing”. For a sixteen year old in the middle of the night at his first party, in front of his first crush, experiencing his first heartbreak, “nothing” is as close you can get to describing everything he was thinking and feeling. It’s a strange sort of numbness, heartbreak. There is no pain at first and then it hits you, tidal in its intensity, knocking you breathless and drowning you.

 

Jisung tries his best to swim. He remembers dive-bombing in pools and the way his eyes would burn with chlorine but now they burn with unshed tears. He blinks them back and swallows down the lump in his throat. Jaemin frowns, reaching over with a soothing hand and running it down the length of Jisung’s back.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low, breath laced with alcohol. Jisung nods, utterly unconvincing. Jaemin’s eyes narrow but then he smiles, soft and tender, and slides the hand on Jisung’s back to his waist, pulling him into Jaemin’s side. They’re so close that Jisung can smell the lingering smoke on Jaemin’s clothes and the baby lotion on his skin.

 

“Yes, hyung. Just… tired, is all,” he said.

 

Jaemin had rolled his eyes and pulled Jisung closer. He wondered if Jaemin could hear his heart beat.

 

“You should’ve told me,” Jaemin whined. “I wouldn’t have let you stay out so late. You want to go home?”

 

“I’m not a kid, hyung.” Jisung wriggles out of Jaemin’s grasp. Jaemin whines again, childish and petulant, and Jisung shouldn’t find it so cute but as Jaemin peers up at him with glossy eyes and cheeks flushed with alcohol, his heart flips. He’s always been weak for Jaemin. Jisung swivels on his heel to turn his back on Jaemin; he fears for his heart if he allows himself to stare any longer.

 

But it doesn’t end there. Though Jisung can’t see him, he’s still affected. Jaemin giggles, bubbly and bright and carefree, the sound dancing through the air. Jisung has to squeeze his eyes shut to contain the sudden rush of feelings hitting him. He clenches his fists. He will not turn around.

 

“Jisungie,” he calls out in sing-song. Jisung will not turn around. “Come on baby, look at me,” and as if the words are magic, Jisung spins on his heel. Jaemin is a siren and Jisung is a sailor, drunk off love. He stumbles across the deck, legs too weak to keep himself up, and presses himself against the side of the ship. Down below, the seas are rough, waves of swirling gray enveloping the side of the ship and swallowing it whole. It almost sobers him up. But then, across the clash of waves and the chorus of the sea, Jisung hears _him_. The siren. Jaemin. He sits upon a mossy rock, the sea around him bright and blue. Sunlight breaks through the clouds and shines down on Jaemin, illuminating him and only him. Jaemin looks up and meets his eyes, lips curling into a smile. Jisung falls.

 

“I’m looking,” Jisung says, making sure to keep his voice steady. Jaemin smiles at that and then takes a step forward into Jisung’s space. Jisung grows almost cross-eyed at how close they are. “What is it?” he breathes out, almost a whisper.

 

Jaemin doesn’t answer. He reaches up with steady hands to cup Jisung’s cheeks, his touch petal-soft, tender. His thumb smooths over Jisung’s skin, caressing, feather-light. Like a soft spring breeze through a meadow of wildflowers. Jisung’s breath catches in his throat and his chest swells with emotion. Jaemin’s holding him like he’s precious. Jisung knows that he’s not, but for the moment, he allows himself to pretend that he is.

 

Jaemin giggles again, softer this time, as though he’s afraid he’ll blow Jisung away with just a breath. He cocks his head to the side, studying Jisung, and Jisung feels himself grow warm under his gaze.

 

“You’ll always be a kid to me,” Jaemin says, and Jisung stills. He knew that their relationship was always more brotherly but to hear Jaemin say it out loud hurts. As if hearing Jisung’s thoughts, Jaemin frowns, the hands on Jisung’s cheeks sliding down to cup the back of his neck. “Not what I meant. I just…” Jaemin trails off, looking to the side. When he looks back there’s a fire in his eyes, firmer, more resolute. “Don’t you want to stay like this forever? If I could chose a day, any day, to live over and over again, I’d choose today.”

 

“You’d go mad,” Jisung says.

 

Jaemin shakes his head. “I’d go mad _without_ you. That’s why we have to be together forever, yeah? Yeah?”

 

Jisung smiles, heart fluttering. “Yeah.”

 

They walk home hand in hand, stumbling through the streets of Seoul. In the dark of night, the city lights glitter like stars, and for the moment Jisung can allow himself to believe that they’re walking in space. Nothing matters in space. Not school, not parents, not time. There is no care for the future. Jisung smiles and squeezes Jaemin’s hand tighter.

 

They stumble into a McDonalds, the fluorescent white light burning Jisung’s eyes and the thick scent of grease clogging his nose. It’s utterly unromantic and Jisung feels disgusting even stepping foot in the place, but Jaemin whines for a happy meal and mcflurry, and who is Jisung to deny him? They find a booth in the back and curl up on the tacky red seats. Jaemin digs into his happy meal, pulling out the orange juice, nuggets, and fries, and dumping them on the tray in search for the toy. He grins when he finds it.

 

“Here,” Jaemin says, pressing the Ryan plush into Jisung’s palm. “You can have it.”

 

Jisung looks down at the toy rolling around in his palm and then back up to Jaemin who is stuffing his face with nuggets. “Are you sure? You love Ryan.”

 

Jaemin nods and swallows down his nuggets. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. Now, do you want your fries? You haven’t eaten them yet.”

 

Jisung rolls his eyes and pushes them over to Jaemin who wastes no time digging in. He looks back down at the plush in his palm and squeezes it, feeling the soft brown fur against his skin. He smiles.

 

 

 

 

Summers spent by Jaemin’s side were summers that Jisung treasured: he tacked up each and every polaroid on the space above his bed and placed trinkets from their late night escapades to McDonalds sat on his desk. When Jisung thinks _summer_ he now thinks of golden skin and sunshine smiles. He thinks of Jaemin.

 

Some years, they would part. Jaemin would travel down to Busan to visit his grandparents and Jisung would be stuck inside the house, listening to the incessant bickering of his parents through their paper-thin walls. Jisung would swelter inside of his room, refusing to open the window for fear that he would catch the tail end of an argument. It happened, once. They’d said his name, holding it in their mouths like a thorned rose, bleeding from their lips. _It’s because of you._

 

Some years, Jisung would travel down to visit his own grandparents. They lived in a small rural village whose name Jisung has long forgotten, in a small and traditional house, on top of a small and rocky hill. The house smelt like medicinal tea and incense, and if Jisung were to close his eyes and picture that small, dark house, he would smell the peony and liquorice of _ssanghwa_ tea. He would see the wisps of smoke as they rose through the air and clouded the pictures of his ancestors.

 

His parents fought there, too. They began fighting the morning they were to leave. They continued fighting the length of the four hour journey. They fought all the way through the winding country roads and all the way up the rocky hills and mountains. They fought in front of the altar for their ancestors.

 

Jisung’s grandmother never turned on her hearing aid. She would smile, not out of naivety, and not out of ignorant bliss, and she would pour Jisung a cup of steaming _ssanghwa_ tea, the dried cinnamon bark bobbing up and down in the murky water. Jisung would take it, and he would sip, looking over his father’s shoulders drawn tense with rage, up through the clouds of incense, to the the picture of his grandfather sitting high on the altar, the corners of his lips downturned as he watches over his family.  

 

And, Jisung would smile. Not out of naivety. Not out of ignorant bliss.

 

 

 

 

They don’t spend the summer after Jisung’s wish together. Jisung prays that they do, doesn’t think he can bear being apart for too long, though he knows that’s probably what they need — distance from each other. Jisung thinks of it as preparation for the future.

 

“I don’t want to go,” Jaemin says. His voice trembles around the words. Jisung doesn’t need to see him to hear that he’s crying. “Mum said it’s for the best, to get out of this fucking—” Jaemin inhales sharply “—to get out of this city. We’re going down to Busan. She said, _we’ll play on the beach and you can go surfing, just like old times, yeah?_ and God, Sungie, I almost lost it. I said we’d go surfing together, didn’t I? I said—” Jaemin trails off, getting choked up.

 

“I said I’d take you down to the beach and we’d build sandcastles together, like kids or some shit, because that’s what you do when you’re in love, don’t you? I’d get you ice cream and it’d drip all over us because it’s too hot and then I’d lick it up, just because I know it’d annoy you.” Jaemin sighs and slams something. Jisung’s not sure what, but the treehouse shakes with the force of it and Jisung struggles to keep the branches steady.

 

Later on, when Jaemin’s crawled down from the treehouse and the light in his room has flickered off, Jisung allows himself to dream. He’s thought of Busan many times before. He’s thought of them on the beach, etching their names into the sand. He’s thought of them staying on the beach past midnight, the tide lapping at their ankles as the stars above ebb and flow. He’s thought of sunsets, more colourful and more vibrant than could ever be seen in the skies of Seoul, and he’s thought about kissing Jaemin beneath one.

 

They would build sand castles and buy ice cream that would drip all over them. Jisung would hold back a laugh and wrinkle his nose or curl up his lip in disgust. Jaemin would pant like a dog and Jisung would kick his side.

 

Jisung would pull Jaemin close, chests flush against each other, lips just a breath apart, and Jisung would say _I love you_ , and Jaemin would whisper it back. Because, well, that’s what you do when you’re in love.

 

 

 

 

Jisung’s mother moves out a week after Jaemin leaves.

 

She opens his bedroom curtains for the first time since he disappeared, and that’s when Jisung knew something was wrong. He could see into his little shoebox room, at the unmade bed, Jaemin’s hoodies hanging over his desk chair, the little trinkets lining his windowsill. The dust on his window is an unearthly barrier.

 

Most things are packed into cardboard boxes labelled with his mother’s neat lettering, but she puts everything in Jisung’s room into bin bags. He watches as she runs a tender hand over his favourite sweater before folding it with a practice that comes only with being a mother, and then shovelling it into a bin bag. She cries as she does it.

 

It’s a strange thing to see. Jisung’s whole life is reduced to ten bin bags, brimming with clothes and trinkets and books — this was _Jisung,_ these are his _memories._ But time does not care about memories; it forgets those it leaves in the past. One day, someone will wear his favourite sweater and they will never know the memories it holds in the seams. His favourite books will be recycled. His trinkets will end up in landfill. To think, that all that material held so much meaning. Memories in a bin bag. Jisung wonders if, one day, he too will end up in a bin bag.

 

There’s a moving truck parked outside and workers load the cardboard boxes into the back, but Jisung’s mother doesn’t help. She stands in the garden in her night clothes, wearing the fluffy slippers she would would always potter around the house in, smoking a cigarette. She never smoked before.

 

She runs a delicate hand over the bricks of the house before bending down to pluck a rose. Its thorn pricks her finger and she bleeds into the grass. Just before she leaves, she looks up at the treehouse, at _Jisung_ , and she sighs.

 

She takes a heavy drag of her cigarette and then drops it to the ground and snubs it out with the tip of her slipper. She turns and doesn’t look back.

 

Jisung’s never felt so alone in his life.

 

 

 

 

 _She_ comes just before summer ends — her family of five: two parents, two kids, and _her._

 

They fill the house slowly but surely. She takes Jisung’s room, tearing down the print wallpaper and painting the walls yellow. Yellow is a happy colour. Jisung wonders if she’ll paint him yellow, too.

 

Since Jisung’s mother moved out, the garden has withered. The roses have lost their colour and the grass is like straw, but even so, the kids spend every day in it. They spray water pistols and build forts with sheets and have little picnics. She joins them sometimes, pouring them imaginary tea and munching on crackers like they’re a feast.

 

Her mother tends to the garden as best as she can. She totters around with her little watering can, breathing life into the droopy plants, and planting more where she finds space. There are tulips, now, flown in from Holland. Jisung tries to befriend them, but they don’t speak the same and it’s hard, but when he nods they nod back and for the moment, that’s enough.

 

She introduces herself one day, sitting below the shade of the tree. She’s lying on a picnic blanket with one hand in a bowl of fruit salad, the other holding a dainty book she’s been ploughing through. Her hair is red, then, the colour the sky flushes at dusk. She peers up through the branches to a yellow bird perched on one of the branches.

 

The bird swoops down, landing on the book. It peers with curious eyes over at her, inching forward. She smiles like summer days and the bird preens, fluttering its wings in welcome. She laughs.

 

“I’m Yeri,” she says. “We can be friends.”

 

The bird nods its head, leans backward, and flies away, breaking through Jisung’s leaves to the freedom of the sky. It leaves behind a singular yellow feather. Yeri takes it and slots it in the pages of her book.

 

The bird soars through the sky and melts into the summer sun.

 


End file.
